


Belongs To Me

by Phia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cheesy, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Short & Sweet, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:18:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4049401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phia/pseuds/Phia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes people just need to steal to get what they want and what they need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Belongs To Me

“It’s been too long, Sherlock. You need to eat,” John snarls. He sets a plate of biscuits on the kitchen counter with a hard thump. Sherlock hasn’t been pulled away from his experiment and he isn’t looking at him.

John huffs and paces back and forth in front of Sherlock. He’s still looking through his microscope at - whatever the Hell is on the slide that he’s looking at. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock blinks behind his goggles, the ones that John basically had to force him to wear. He slowly slips them off, putting the pair on the counter and straightening up. Sighing, he moves his shoulders, letting his bones sound with creaks.

He looks down at John, who has crossed his arms. “Yes, John?”

“I’m not playing a game, Sherlock. Eat the biscuits!” He jabs a finger at the plate. Sherlock looks down at it as if he’s seeing it for the first time. He scowls.

“Eat-“

“No!” 

“Eat the damn-" 

“I don’t have to do anything you tell me to!”

“Fine!” 

Sherlock blinks quickly, eyelashes shiny in the dim kitchen lighting. “What?” 

“I said, _fine_ ,” John growls. He stomps out of the kitchen, body stiff with anger. Sherlock keeps his gaze pinned at his retreating figure and sighs. But then he returns to his experiment because there is nothing he can do.  

At dinner, John sits alone, eating from the plate of pasta that Mrs. Hudson only sent up after their argument. With each clank of the fork on the silverware, the guilt bubbles in Sherlock’s stomach. He walks away from the kitchen and sits across John.

John looks at him, tired eyes lined with wrinkles. Sherlock tries at a gentle smile.

“I … apologize. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

John continues to stare, no trace of emotion on his face. His fork is still in his fist, a single piece of manicotti speared on the tines of his utensil.

Without thinking (and that is a change, not thinking), Sherlock plucks the fork from him and eats the manicotti.

He smiles at John again, this time with a smile of giddiness, flashing his teeth. John smiles back and doesn’t say a word.

 

* * *

  

“I’m sorry your girlfriend cheated on you,” Sherlock says from the doorway. The autumn air has left a chill, and John is huddled under two large duvets. His blond hair is ruffled over the two pillows set under his head, and he hasn’t opened his eyes to see Sherlock walking into his room like a traveling lighthouse.

“Hmm?” John hums, and then he turns in his bed so he is facing away from Sherlock. Sherlock reaches the edge of John’s bed and lifts the two duvets. He sits down on the mattress and sets the ends of them on his lap. John is facing the window and the wall on his right.

“I’m sorry that … _she_ cheated on you,” Sherlock repeats. He’s deleted John’s girlfriend’s name already. It’s okay, though, because he won’t need it when John breaks up with her.

John gives a breathless laugh, short and hollowed by sleepiness. “It’s fine, Sherlock. It's happened before.”

Sherlock stares at the wall and how it has been painted by the night’s darkness. “Well, it shouldn’t have.”

“You sleeping or not?” John answers, seemingly uncaring about what has happened. Sherlock isn’t sure, now.

He lays down on the bed and drags out one of the pillows from John’s head. John mumbles something that Sherlock doesn’t catch. 

“‘Night,” John says, eyes shut tightly. Sherlock drags more of the beige duvet over himself. John sighs.

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock says.  

Sherlock wakes up first the next morning, too hot from sleeping under the duvets. John is curled up to his side in search of warmth. Sherlock wraps his left arm around him to pull him closer, just to help John.

 

* * *

  

“Oh, God.”

It seems that John doesn’t care that they’re in front of everyone. Lestrade and Mycroft peer down at a phone screen in Lestrade’s hand together. Donovan is sneaking glances at them that are fairly obvious, long hair billowing as she leans on the boot of the police car. The rest of the team is gathered around, sipping coffee or staring at the scene in front of them.

John throws his arms around Sherlock and pulls him close. The wind brings up their coattails, and Sherlock’s are packed with dirt. John’s hands are cold from the freezing rain, fingers sharp, cold points through the black fabric of Sherlock’s coat.

“Oh my God!” John yells, and then he stands back from Sherlock, coat lapels held in his fingers. “I’m glad you stole my mobile. Oh, God.”

“John, I’m fine.”

John’s eyes are wide and blue-grey. He takes another two steps back from Sherlock and nods. “Yes, you’re alright. Come on, let’s go home.”

Donovan walks up to them. The bottoms of her black boots are caked in mud. “Not yet.”

She puts a hand on John’s shoulder, but she’s looking at Sherlock. There is nothing harmful about her at this point. “You’re going to have to come in to fill in some paperwork-“

“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” John asks, gaze flickering over Sherlock, whose clothes are still striped in mud. 

Donovan is still looking at Sherlock, with his gaze blank. “Fine.” She turns back to John, who is now smiling. “Go home.”

The ride in the cab away from the crime scene is silent. Sherlock hands John his mobile when they pull up to the Baker Street apartment. John takes it in hands that are slightly shaking. The screen has a streak of mud on it from when Sherlock had been tied up in the marsh, fingers fumbling over the screen to text Lestrade an alert.

“Thanks,” John says, not looking at Sherlock. He pays the cabbie and they walk outside. They join at the doorstep, and John fumbles for his keys. 

Sherlock puts his hands on John’s shoulders, and John stops, one key held between his thumb and index finger. “What-“

Sherlock leans down and kisses him. John tastes like salt, and his lips are chapped. John manages to put his keys into his pocket, put his arms around Sherlock’s waist, pull him closer, and kiss him back.

Sherlock moves one hand into John’s hair, fingers threading through the blond strands. When their lips disconnect, John’s warm breath flutters over Sherlock’s lips.

He moves a hand down over Sherlock’s chest, right over his heart, and presses down once, palm flat against the beating organ.

 


End file.
